


A Touching Encounter

by Sculpts



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Clothed Sex, M/M, ShSpesh, Sherlock Has a Military Kink, Top Quality Trash Watson, the train car
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-04-28 07:27:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5083024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sculpts/pseuds/Sculpts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After meeting Sherlock Holmes in a train compartment on his way home to London, Dr. John Watson decides that twenty minutes ought to be by far enough to give him a proper hello.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Touching Encounter

“Sherlock Holmes. Consulting detective. The only one in the world.” 

“Is that right? Good. Well, I’m - “

“Doctor Watson.”

“Yes.” A beat, a twitch of nose and an upwards shift to his moustache. Pleased? There’s pause from him for a moment, space for thought. And then, “ _John._ Watson.” 

Silence itself takes a deep breath in. Holds it. It’s not the same quality of quiet as it had been before they started talking: neither of them have that same overwhelming interest in the view that had kept them from opening their mouths to start. The world travels by outside, they travel on through it, and neither turns their head to watch it go. Not a whisper, not an inch. Two sets of eyes are matched and met, caught up, suspended, right until the moment one set slip to find plush lips. The silence breaks. Breaks as Holmes lets out a held breath, and though it’s barely anything at all it never does take much to light a fuse.

Doctor John Watson rises to his feet. Once stood, he sets to neatening himself. Adjust his trousers, tugs down his waistcoat, carefully aligns his jacket. Helpless eyes follow his hands’ course, their every move, from the fussing at his waist and the stroking down of fabric either side of his chest to the point where his fingers ghost just ever so slightly against the fastening of his trousers. Holmes’ throat feels tight. He doesn’t speak. Finally, Watson follows the thin chain hooked across his torso and fishes into his waistcoat pocket to pull out a watch. Holmes watches, transfixed, as he glances at the face. The glance can’t be called a glance, really. It goes on for eternity. 

“Mm, wonderful,” says Watson, finally, and Holmes makes one great desperate effort to return his focus to words, to the casual tone of the voice speaking them instead of the shape of the mouth it’s all coming from. “We’ve got twenty minutes before we arrive at the station. That ought to be plenty.” 

Sherlock Holmes has barely a second to make any note of confusion or acknowledgement before the watch is tucked away, one hand planted into the seat cushion by his head and the other has its palm molded flush against the shape of his groin. Punctuation comes as a roll of  _that_ hand, encouragement, and is met with a half-formed sound. Unbidden and shocked. Absolutely  _delighted_. 

“What else do you know about me, then?”

The voice comes close to his ear, a hot murmur. Watson is a curved shape at his front, body distant but hands and face so near and Holmes has finally caught up with that, short circuit repaired, his own hips canting into the hand that barely moves but  _presses_ and by God that isn’t enough, not near as much as he wishes for now, but it’s so much more than he’d known he’d be given, such a promise, and the sudden sob gathering in the back of his throat is captured and tied to a thought, shaped, and when released it sounds out in one short word, rich with wanting -

“ _Captain._ ”

Oh, God. 

 _Captain_  John Watson lets go of a low, filthy chuckle. It sets Holmes’ eardrums to quivering, whispers past them to slip down his spine and weave tight knots about his insides where it finally sinks, satisfied, settling hot in the pit of his gut. Thin lips leave his ears alone, find their way to heat the skin where his jaw meets his throat, and there’s no stopping the sound that gusts out of him or the way his pelvis leaps in answer. His hips rock more wantonly now, eager, and a trail of kisses have him stretching his throat out, persuading as much skin as possible to abandon the shelter of his collar and present itself to ministration, to the flirt of teeth and the bristle of a descending moustache.

“There’s a good boy,” croons Watson, and his stomach flips as his pride calls out in joint protest and exaltation. Can’t sit anymore, can’t just sit here, one hand reaches and clasps tight in the fabric at Watson’s forearm in an unvoiced plea and all that it earns him is a squeeze, an expert thumbed trace of the hard line of him through his trousers. Not  _enough_ , oh God, oh  _God._

He isn’t sure when he closed his eyes but he can’t see Watson anymore, can feel the light feather of his hair against his jaw and knows he’s discarded his bowler, can trace the stretch of his smirk over skin and knows that something’s happening, something’s coming. He hears the tight whine of his own voice just seconds before a hand moves to smother it, fingers slipping past open lips even as others close them in and quiet him and it’s then, as his tongue works to accept this new gift, hips shuddering up into the hand that moves its relentless palming rhythm, that he understands what it was Watson had known before he had the chance to realise.

Holmes’ grip locks tight around the doctor’s forearm, other hand squeezing imprints into the seat cushion, and he promptly spills himself into his underclothes.

It isn’t until his core’s finished its spasm and his mouth has softened from a cavern into loose lips around Watson’s fingers that the other man finally draws his slowly shifting palm to a stop. He releases him after a moment, moves instead to soothe that same hand over his thigh, gentle. His hand falls away from Holmes’ mouth which rouses him enough to have his eyes slide just slightly open, and from there he can see Watson, closer now, knee resting on the bench seat beside him, with the pocket watch in hand again. His other hand stills, leaves just his thumb to ease in circles over Holmes’ clothed thigh. He looks up, and their eyes meet for the first time since this started.

“With fifteen minutes to spare. What did I say?” Holmes doesn’t have the wherewithal to refute or deny that, can’t combat Watson’s zealous smirk, doesn’t actually have the  _time_  before the other is pushing himself away with a last peppy pat to his thigh. Holmes stares up at him, eyes as narrowed as he can find the effort to make them through the lasting bliss, as he bustles about in his hand luggage. When the man apparently finds what he’s looking for, turns and approaches him once again to nonchalantly tuck something directly into his jacket pocket, it’s Holmes’ turn to smirk. Hides it neatly behind a somewhat sloppy display of neutrality: it would hardly do to  _encourage_  him.

Bowler back in its original place, bag in hand, the good doctor pauses in the door of the compartment, turns to offer one last passing remark on his way out.

“Well then, Mr Holmes. It was a real _pleasure_. Happy detecting.”

And with that, and the click of the closing door, he’s gone.

 

Which is quite alright, really. It hardly takes Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, to manage this level of discovery. 

Dr. John Watson has slipped him a calling card.

**Author's Note:**

> Wasn't that an adventure


End file.
